GTA Chronicles
by Scott I. Tuplin
Summary: Continuing the story of Liberty City established and original characters. Prologue: An act of vengeance puts Playboy X back in the game.


Further oblivion as he again lifted the bottle to his lips. Oblivion numbing him to his thoughts of torment and anguish; but not releasing him indefinitely. The images of a man who had once been the closest thing to a father he'd ever had flashed obdurately through his mind . His greatest teacher, and his closest friend. Now that man was six foot in the ground, and he'd put him there.

Maybe not by his own hand, but in his world it was the same thing. He didn't have to pull the trigger. If the go-ahead came from him, it was the same thing as pulling the trigger himself. The blame rested solely on his doorstep, and he couldn't shift it.

He'd killed Dwayne Forge. Nobody else. Not Dwayne. Not the gunman he'd hired to do the job. Just him alone.

For weeks he'd been telling himself that he'd done what he had to do for the North Holland Hustlers, done what he had to do to keep them in the twenty-first century, not let Dwayne drag them back into the stone age, but that excuse wasn't taking anymore.

He had slowly come to realise that was just pure bullshit that he'd fabricated to make himself feel better. That's when he'd started hitting the juice. A week or two later, when the alcohol had started to fail no matter how much he drowned himself in, he smoked his first crack pipe. Now he hated himself for it, but simply couldn't resist the blank euphoria it provided.

Nevertheless, even with the soothing aid of alcohol and crack, he was still systematically losing it. The North Holland Hustlers were suffering for his incompetence. Word had reached the streets that he was down and struggling to beat the count. Before long, somebody else would step up and take the streets right from under his nose.

Maybe even the Dominican duo from Northwood who had been making a name for themselves recently.

Many soldiers had flown the nest, on the lookout for somebody who could make better use of their talents. Now only a few loyal dogs remained by his side, but even they were slowly falling victim to his lack of leadership. Most days, they would haunt the streets of North Holland in futile attempts to fly the flag whilst he wasted away in his penthouse in a sea of liquor, drugs and the occasional woman.

Today was one of those days.

He lay sprawled over his couch, staring up at the blank widescreen on the wall, completely oblivious to the young girl suffering a drug-induced stupor on the other couch, dutifully sipping at his drink every few seconds and, every now and again, leaning forward to snort one of the many lines of cocaine he had cut out on the table.

The penthouse was a mess. Junk everywhere, though he was rarely eating now, and misused paraphernalia that was no longer suitable for his indulgences, along with empty cans and bottles of beer and liquor – some of them even containing quantities of piss from when he'd been too annihilated to make it to the bathroom.

He ignored it all as he plucked a snapped credit card off the table and used its one remaining straight edge to rack out another line. He reached for a crumpled receipt, which he had now been reduced to using in order to snort his drugs since his wallet had run dry from resupplying himself, and rolled it up.

"Yeah. That's right. Go ahead and fuck with your head even more."

He looked up at the door leading out onto the balcony, sure that his brain had impossibly registered the voice as one he remembered only too well, but there was nobody there so he went back to concentrating on the task at hand.

The cocaine burned unnaturally as it made its way through his nasal system and into his body. He coughed and spluttered when it hit the back of his throat, coughed up a mouthful of thick, lumpy substance and hawked it out onto the table with a grimace before collapsing back against the couch and closing his eyes, waiting for the drugs to kick in and take their next hours hold on his conscious and his conscience.

"Where'd you get that shit? Probably got more baking soda in that bag than a guido bakery."

This time he was sure he'd heard the voice, and he was sure it belonged to a dead man. His head snapped up unusually fast considering how much illegal substance he had consumed that day, and his rolling eyes soon found and fixed on the man stood by the elevator.

"D-Dwayne?"

He stuttered, a cold and unnerving hand suddenly closing around his entire chest and holding him tight. Dwayne stepped forward into the little light shining through the windows. His face was real, but daunting and full of death and emptiness. His eyes were dark and lifeless, like those of a shark, and for the first time in his life Playboy actually feared the man before him – no, not the man, because it couldn't be that man.

"What the fuck kind of boss are you?"

His question was abrupt but rhetorical, his tone demanding, and his presence dark as he sat down by the feet of the girl on the other couch. He looked upon her face and smiled warmly, as if he were telling her that everything was all right.

"This ain't how I taught you, Trey."

Dwayne had not called him Trey since before he had gone to prison. Like everyone else, he had fallen into the habit of calling him Playboy when he'd taken over the North Holland Hustlers at such a young age. Now it was Trey again, and Playboy didn't like that. It made him sound too final, too conclusive, like when a child is naughty and its parents call it by its full name.

"You ain't real! You're dead!"

He cried, shuffling to the far end of the couch and desperately scanning the table for the pistol he knew was there somewhere.

"You're right. I am dead. Because you killed me, Trey."

He replied, now looking up at Playboy with those same dark and lifeless eyes.

"And that means you can't kill me again, so stop looking for the gun."

He was still scared, but he did as he was told.

"What do you want?"

"I've been watching you, Trey. I've been watching you fall."

He stood up, walked across the room to the balcony doors and pushed them open, almost instantly filling the room with fresh air to tackle the stagnant aroma of pity.

"It's time to stop falling."

He said, stepping out into the daylight and beckoning for Playboy to follow.

Outside, the early afternoon sun was warm against Playboy's skin, offering a strange comfort that he hadn't even been able to find in the strongest of drugs. He looked up at the blue sky and felt something wash over him, taking with it a part of the heavy load that had been hanging on his shoulders since Dwayne's death.

Then he realised again that Dwayne was with him, looking out over the city scape in silence.

"Why would you help me? It's my fault you're..."

He allowed his sentence to trail off, knowing that Dwayne was fully aware of his situation. The older man turned with an odd smile on his face, a smile of seemingly ignorant bliss.

"It ain't so bad."

What ain't so bad? Playboy thought to himself. Death? Or the fact that I killed you? Is this forgiveness?

"Don't ask yourself so many questions, Trey, because nobody here got the answers. You got to live life as it comes your way, one step at a time. Shit ain't easy. Dog eat dog, kill or be killed, that's what I told you these streets are like, and don't you forget it."

Somewhere in the streets down below, a siren cut through the early afternoon peace. Playboy walked to the edge and looked down onto the road, but he could see nothing.

"It's time to get back on your feet. And you know just where to start."

When he turned back, he was on the roof alone.

-X-X-X-X-X-

"Hold the door please?"

Playboy called as he rushed across the pavement towards the man who had just opened the door into the Middle View apartment complex.

The resident complied. He had never seen this young black male before, but it was a big building and he may even have been a new tenant.

Even if he did look like shit.

Playboy smiled and nodded his thanks as he stepped into the lobby and headed straight for the elevators. He hit the button for the top floor, one shy of the penthouse suite, and waited.

"You feel it yet?"

He turned his head. Dwayne was leant into the corner of the elevator, a sly grin on his face.

"Yeah."

Playboy said.

"Good. That's what drives you. That's what makes you who you are."

Then he was gone, but Playboy could still hear his voice.

"Don't let me down, Trey."

"I won't let you down."

The elevator pinged and the doors opened onto the eighth floor. He stepped out, his head whipping left and right searching for the fire exit sign.

He followed it onto a crass stairway and started to ascend to the penthouse, but when he got there he found the door was on a one way motor, and that he couldn't get in from his side without a special key.

He racked his brains. If he went and knocked on the door, the occupant would never let him in. He had to get the occupant out, but he also needed him to be alone, some place nobody would disturb them.

"Trey."

He turned, expecting to see Dwayne, but instead only finding the fire alarm switch on the wall. That was all he needed.

He smashed the tiny glass window and flicked the switch, then waited.

Down below, he could hear the tenants of the lower floors rushing down the stairway to safety from the phantom inferno.

Time passed. He got nervous. But he knew that this was the only way out for the penthouse occupant. The elevators would lock down when the fire alarm was activated, rendering them useless.

"Just wait." Dwayne told him. "He'll come."

And sure enough, the doors finally opened and Yusuf Amir appeared, flustered and dripping wet, wrapped in a towel having obviously just jumped out of the shower at the alarms declaration of a fire.

When he saw Playboy standing in his path, his eyes widened and he rushed back into the penthouse, the realisation of Playboy's visit dawning on him as he allowed the towel to slip from his waist in his hurry.

Playboy followed him inside, taking long steady strides towards his prey, who was headed straight for a cabinet at the edge of the room.

Through the glass doors of that cabinet, Playboy could see the glinting tell tale of guns. He broke into a run, catching Yusuf just as he tried to open the cabinet.

Both men slammed full force into the glass, shattering it down upon their heads and backs.

Playboy stepped back, grabbed hold of Yusuf's shoulders and wrenched him away from his hopes of survival, flinging him almost clear across the room.

The fat Arabic man scrambled towards the pool table, his hand feeling frantically across the felt until it closed around one of the balls.

Playboy braced himself as the ball came his way, and ducked beneath its trajectory before rushing his victim again.

He struck out with his knee, catching Yusuf right under the chin and knocking him flat onto his back. He spluttered and expelled a mouthful of blood, along with a few teeth.

"Please!"

He begged, holding out his hands in a pathetic and futile defence.

Playboy grabbed him by the head and forced him back onto his feet, continuously driving one knee and then the other into his face, over and over again as they slowly staggered toward the balcony doors.

Yusuf was screaming something beneath him, but Playboy wasn't listening as he pulled the man upright and planted one booted foot firmly in the centre of his chest, sending him crashing backwards through the doors and onto the balcony.

Wiping away the spittle that had escaped his mouth in his terrific anger, Playboy followed.

-X-X-X-X-X-

Columbus Avenue was always a busy part of the city, no matter what the time of day. Running parallel with Middle Park, it was often the gateway from one end of Algonquin to the other.

Traffic slowed as the doors of the Middle View apartment complex swung open and a mass of tenants flooded out onto the pavement.

Fervent eyes glanced up at the building, trying to spot flames or billowing smoke.

But there was none.

There was only Yusuf Amir.

His arms flailed helplessly as he fell, and his screams could barely be heard as they were carried away by the wind almost as soon as they erupted from his lungs.

"Watch out!"

"Look out!"

"Move out of the way!"

The crowd split, women screaming as the doomed man plummeted towards them, men trying their best to get the women and children away from the scene of carnage they knew was about to come.

THUD!

Several people vomited. Some screamed. Others cried, even though they did not actually know the dead man secreted across the pavement.

"Oh my god."

"Jesus."

Traffic came to a halt now as several drivers realised what had happened.

Up on the penthouse balcony, Playboy watched with indifference as the scene unveiled itself.

Amongst those tiny faces, he saw Dwayne.

The older man waved up at him, before disappearing into the throng of Algonquin.

**~ GRAND THEFT AUTO CHRONICLES ~**

**BY SCOTT I. TUPLIN**


End file.
